Red
by Freyoid
Summary: Shizuo never liked the color red. Character death. Drabble.


Red was never Shizuo's favorite color.

It was the color of the informant's shirt when they had first became enemies. The enemy in which Shizuo called the flea was light on his feet; and with ease, slashed at the blonde's chest when they first met. His whole body seething with rage and pent up fury that would soon be unleashed.

It was the color that was displayed in their battles, which often lead to the destruction of many street signs and vending machines. Their game of cat and mouse were not an oddity in the strange city. Often did it lead to blood from both parties; (Though Izaya would like to disagree.)

It was the color he saw in the heat of the moment, when sweat glistened down his forehead, only the bed creaking and the informant writhing beneath him for the first time. His eyes glazed over with lust and a complacent grin that shot challenges his way.

It was the color of the raven's blanket. He had brought it over many times to the ex-bartender's apartment. And though it was small, and had a few patches; it never failed in keeping the two warm. It was probably Shizuo's body heat, the raven thought.

It was the color he found sitting on his doorstep. A simple, heart shaped box filled with the sweetest of strawberry chocolates. A simple note strapped to the back. He remembered that day as if it was yesterday. And he knew he was happy.

It was the color of the information broker's eyes. A brownish, reddish shade that pierced through him, indicating a superiority that could only be matched with an idyllic man such as him. They were beautiful; he knew for a fact. Because whenever he saw them, he felt okay.

It was the color of his laugh, the echoes that were bright and full of joy. In which Shizuo, bashfully admitted he could not live without. They both would sit down on the couch, laughing at whatever movie they were watching; or perhaps at a prank they might have pulled on their doctor friend.

It was the color he saw while walking back home from work. The trickles of book on the hard pavement gradually making a trail to his front door where his lover collapsed. His breathing ragged and torn, hair matted with blood. And in those moments, he felt more feelings rush through him than ever before.

It was the color that flashed through his eyes, as he made his way through the pouring rain towards a certain underground doctor's apartment. Each step weighing him down, praying to whatever was out there that his strength wouldn't give out like he always wanted to. The informant lying almost breathlessly in his arms.

It was the color of the raven's pulse. A jagged, faint beat that rang through the room through the machine. His lover helplessly lying on the medical bed. All he could do was wait now. He had pulled up a chair to his bedside and slowly but surely drifted off to sleep, feeling nothing but pain and worry.

It was the color that stained his hand when he woke up to the sound of a flatline. The irritating mechanical noise that seemed to mock him. Echoes of "he's dead" "he's gone" in his mind, keeping all thoughts in a frenzy. The sickening smell of disinfectant and the furious pounding of his own fist against the glass coffee table in the next room was the reminder that this was reality.

It was the color that matched the roses he set by the informant's grave. Not very many people showed up to the ceremony. Shizuo didn't care. The people that did come, left him lilies. He would laugh if he was in a better time. The informant was not pure; like the lilies represented. He thought roses fit him better. After all, no one can ever live their life completely pure.

It was the color he saw in his own laugh. The sickeningly sweet laughter that sounded too good to be true. Months had gone by since the raven's death. Shizuo had never been one for violence, but after the incident; any bystander would notice that Ikebukuro was a warzone.

It was the color he saw in the fleeting glimpses of the pavement. Blood dripping down from the gash in his head, his body, tilted to the side at the same, withered roses he had left all those months ago. In his hand, a gun; its shiny surface hitting the ground after his fingers uncurled slowly. He was going to see the bastard and kick his smarmy little ass for leaving him. Then give him a kiss and a new white blanket instead. That was the plan, of course.

Because after all...

Shizuo never liked the color red.


End file.
